


Winter's Fury

by TheSpyder



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Book cannon, F/M, Warging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7452664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpyder/pseuds/TheSpyder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They're calling him the White Wolf of Winterfell, Ned Stark's vengeance, the Winter's Fury, and thousand other names. Say he rides white demon with blood red eyes into battle and has a thousand wolves at his back. Haven't heard such fanciful stories since my mother told me stories of Aegon the Conqueror. There is no way half these stories can be true right Alayne?" </p><p>The bastard Alayne Stone knows these are just bards' fanciful tales, and Sansa Stark a woman grown knows better than to put stock in things like heroes and hope. However the young girl who used to love songs and believed in true knights screams to her that it is true, that Winterfell belongs to the Starks and the brother that is left to her is calling her home.</p><p>Picks up after events from ADWD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter's Fury

**Author's Note:**

> This is me picking up fanfiction after not writing for a long time. So this all may be a little rough until I get into the swing of things. Right now I haven't decided whether this will be a short couple chapter "one-shot" about how I hope the next book goes, or whether I make this into a story of unknowable length. The ideas are there, I just haven't decided if I am willing. If this does end up a story I have ideas to add Arya, Bran, Rickon, and bunch of other characters.

It was the howl that let her know that it was more than a dream. A powerful cry that seemed to convey sorrow and loss, pain and misery. A sound so beautiful in its' tragedy, the Sansa Stark of old would have wept at the story that surely must be behind it. The woman she is today, the one she hides from the world, may still have tears in her eyes. She would not let the tears show, and instead keep her face a mask. While inside she knows that if she were join her howl to his, it would join effortlessly in a mournful melody. That the feelings behind his howl are the same as hers, for they are family, pack.

The sound cuts through the chilly winds of the land she calls home in her heart, and seems to echo through sheer force of its' ferocity. However the howl is not from a wolf, this she knows because while the sound is the eerily similar to those of her youth, something instinctual tells her it is something more. 

Sansa knows all this even before she sees him, through eyes that not her own, freely lent to her by their owner. For the Silent Wolf wants her to witness this, because he knows her connection to the pack has been damaged, that the Graceful sister barely lives on in her companion's mind. Something in Sansa knows that not even this would be possible, if not for the power behind the howl she hears, one now she sees as well coming from the man's throat. This man, so familiar to her yet so foreign, is calling to something within those who remain, some power that had once been held by the Starks, but have become dormant as the centuries have passed. Tapping into the ancient bloodlines of the First Men, the power said to be given to them by the Old Gods

Through those eyes she watches, his head tipped back, singing his challenge towards their foes and the dark grey clouds above. A tall man with a slender build, but one with the muscles one only achieves of hours in the practice yard. His long face, looking fierce and carved from the ice of the North. His dark brown hair blowing in the wind behind him.

Once again the Sansa Stark of old makes her way surface, marveling in the sight in front of her. Hoping that somewhere on this battlefield a bard is watching, because the brother in front of her truly looks like something from a song. Dark and imposing, a fearsome looking sword at his side, and shouting his defiance to the heavens. Add to that the white direwolf with blood red eyes that she is seeing through, and it has to be a striking picture. For once the fanciful Sansa of youth, and the more heart weary Sansa of present agree, that maybe not all true nights only exist in songs. Like with so many other things she was just looking in the wrong place.

Her reverie is broken by the ending of her brother's howl, and the deafening silence that follows. For one brief instance it seems that her brother has stunned the North itself into silence, that is until a distant howl answers his back. One of which she and the Quiet Brother both knew, but have not heard for so long. The feeling of longing stirs something primal in them both, and the Quiet Brother finally has reason to break his silence, and answers with howl that is just as powerful as his master's and holds just as much emotions. 

What answers them back would startle Sansa speechless if she could talk. For it is not only the Wild Sister that answers them back, but what sounds like hundreds of similar cries coming every which directions. The Wolfswood all around them coming to life, with the sounds of its' namesake. The howls fill the lands of the North, and to her they sound like vengeful specters of the fallen North men coming to reclaim their homeland.

Next thing she knows they are running, the Silent's Wolf's companion and her brother riding on a monstrous black war horse beside them. Their enemy has more men, and are better equipped, but they can see the abject terror on their faces from otherworldly signs happening around them. For she can hear them, the hundreds paws on all sides gliding towards their enemies, catching a quick glimpse of a direwolf the size of a horse out distancing their smaller cousins, her fierce glowing yellow eyes promising bloodshed to come. Their enemies are realizing that is not only the people of the North that remembers, but that of land itself. That the Old Gods are swearing vengeance for the atrocities that have happened in the southern lands where they have no power As they near the front lines and lunge into the ranks of men and horse, teeth and claws ready for the kill, they hear first clash of swords. 

**********************************************************************************

With a jolt Sansa Stark sits bolt upright in bed, barely keeping herself from screaming and bringing guards running towards her door. She remembers of dreaming of wolf howls, armies, and a brother she barely dared to dream of seeing again. Her breathing is labored and erratic as she tries to calm herself down. The dream had seemed so real, but it seemed like something to much out of one Old Nan's stories to be anything more than wishes of a still naive little girl. In frustration she runs her hands down her eyes and face, and comes back holding a braid of dark brown hair.

Those were just dreams of Sansa Stark, and I am not her. I am Alayne Stone, I must remember. With sigh Alayne settled back into the cot in her tent, and tried to put the thoughts of wolves, winter, and home that were not her own out of her mind. For they were too fantastic to be real, and hope is something that died in the bastard Alayne Stone and Sansa Stark both long ago.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the end of my prologue of sorts, always feels right to end the chapter when the character goes to sleep. Let me know what you think, and don't be afraid to offer up suggestions if you have them. I think I am going to try the gardner approach GRRM loves to write in, so if you have a seed you would like to see planted I may listen.
> 
> This is my first time writing for the fandom, and first time posting on this site. Feedback is welcome but be easy on the new guy... please.


End file.
